The Lost and Forgotten
by Toff
Summary: We all see enough of Enjy or Eponine. What about those people that Hugo used to prove a point or enhance a scene and never used again? UPDATED after nearly a year!
1. J'ai la Dalle

_Oh, this is nowhere near done. This story shall contain at least thirteen chapters, each one about a different obscure book character. Some aren't as obscure, such as young Azelma, some *extremely* obscure, like Madame Albertine. Mme. Albertine is the best. Who remembers her? Winner gets Petit Gervais' 40 sous piece!_

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_J'ai la dalle._ No other words can describe it so well. It was that moment when you were so truly ravenous that your stomach felt as if a dalle-a paving stone-was pulling it down. Your entire body seized up each time the hunger pangs crested, your head lolling about like it was attached by a mere string. Your eyes, constantly peeled for food, were blurring out the world. The world already ignored you, pay it back and ignore it.

I focused only on two things: the path ahead of me, and a mindless game. I had my money for my supper, all the money I owned, tucked away in the dirty creases of my palm. Every so often, I would stop, throw these coins in the air and attempt to catch them on the back of my hand. After so long a time of playing this game, I was quite skilled at it. However, I hated the game. Each time I caught the coins, it was another second I had my dalle.

I began a simple little ditty I learned in my homeland of Savoy, a song full of happiness and the like. I was exactly like the song's subject, I smiled at all, my life was dismal but fine. I was one of those lucky creatures whose spirits were chronically high and full of mirth.  The hunger was horrible, mind twisting, even de-habilitating, but I kept walking hopefully, my feet as eager to be fed as my stomach.

I was going down the gravel path, singing to the beat of my growling stomach. My stomach swirled raucously, and I braced myself for the hunger pang that was sure to follow. I braced myself, my coins mid-air, and the dalle grew into a boulder.

I felt two coins hit my hand, and followed the third, my forty sous, half hidden in dirt by the side of the road. To the side of the piece, a burly, mean-looking man. The man put me in the mind of a lion. His beard billowed around his head, as bristly and as matted as the lion's mane. He took his large, iron-tipped boot and placed it, with a heavy clump, on top of the coin I needed for supper.

I supposed he merely had not seen it, and I went up to him and asked as sweetly as I could if he would be so kind as to give it back. The look he gave me was rough and angry, so I smiled my gap-toothed grin at him, poking my tongue in the places where my little teeth had fallen out.

This wore away some of his anger, if only for a minute. "What is your name?" He asked. I thought it not intentional, but his voice was very much the growl of an angry lion I had once seen confined to a cage at a fair. He wanted to escape from a horror personal to him.

Smiling again, I complied with his request. "Petit Gervais, monsieur."

All the hardness and coldness I had seen leave the man rushed back to him with full force, and he no longer seemed to yearn for that freedom.

"Get out," he growled again, once more mimicking a beast.

I needed that piece to eat. I did not care what he would do to me; I needed to get it back. "Monsieur," I whimpered. "Give me my coin."

The man looked down at his feet and was silent, as though he didn't understand. I saw him in now the deeper sorrow of a lion born in a cage. He knew of the jungle, but he would never get there.

My dalle tugged and rolled in my stomach, and I realized how dire my situation really was. "Do you see my piece of money?" The man looked blankly at his feet. "Give it to me, will you?"

The man was so fixed in his state of deformed serenity that he did not look up.

My dalle grew and grew, and I became desperate to get the sous back from under his paw. "Monsieur!" I shouted, close to tears. "Give me my white piece!"

He sat there still, remaining in the same strange state, dreaming of his jungle.

I had little sympathy for him, as I had not eaten in days. I needed that coin. I needed it to live.

Worried about what might happen if I went on my way with no white piece, I began to cry.

I needed to bring him back, to show him he was a man, not a lion. I wanted him to see that taking a poor boy's coin was not going to free him from his cage.

I took him by the frayed collar and shook him. With my other dirty little hand I tried move the heavy boot, but it was of no avail.

This jarred him slightly from his dreamlike state, and brought the man back to the path beside which he sat and upon which I shook hungrily. He seemed to have realized his life would be spent in that wrought iron cage, and it made him both troubled and wildly angry.

"Who is there?" bellowed the lion.

Who was there?! Hadn't I already told him who was there?! I wanted my piece, I wanted my life; I had no time for this!

"Me, Me!" I yelled frantically, letting go of his shirt. "Petit Gervais! I already said that, m'sieur!  Give me my piece! Move your foot!"

I had never been this desperate, or this angry, in all my short life. This was no win or lose children's game; this was a matter of life and death. Could he not see I depended upon those 40 sous?

"Take away your foot, old fool!" Why won't you take away you foot?!"

The man twitched. "Ah, you're still here!" He stood up, growling one last time. "You'd better take care of yourself!

This instilled in me the deepest, greatest fear, I was more afraid than I was desperate now. My bones shook under the bit of skin that covered them, and I was scared of what he would do. I heard tell in Savoy of little roaming boys who were killed on the roadside by robbers and villains. The little girls had more to worry about. I was scared stiff, as I said, and for a few seconds, my legs froze to the path and I remained stationary.

Finally, I forgot my fears, my piece, and my dalle and sped away as fast as I was able to.

I stopped a very long ways later, exhausted and unable to move a leg. I fell down in a thicket by the side of the path, with the dalle weighing me, pressing me into the dust from whence I came. I fell into a fitful sleep, struggling as the dalle slowly crushed me.

It is true, the children's stories. Get too close to a lion, and he shall eat you up.


	2. Love Thy Neighbor

            _You all have to be nice to this chapter, I'm rather proud of it. It was hard to think of a plotline for these two (Fameuil and Zéphine), so I just threw something down. They didn't have much of anything in the book that I could work with. Oh, Disclaimer: What Zéphine is what she thinks, and I may or may not agree with her, depending. Mostly I agree with what she has to say. I honestly don't know if the subject of the story (keep reading…) was called a mental illness in the setting, and after doing some research I'm still rather confused. I'm pretty sure I'm wrong, but I'm actually rather happy with this piece of work, so if I'm wrong, give me a break. But well, enjoy if you want to, don't if you don't._

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Fameuil and Zéphine- Love they Neighbor 

My lover, he is truly insane. Oh, I say that not in the knowledgeable, descriptive way they sometimes refer to the wildness of Tholomyes, nor a loving, joking way. Listolier threatens to alert the sanatorium.

Any day, now.

What grounds is this, to send my Fameuil away? Those who are insane cannot love, my dear Fameuil is all too capable of it. Poor man.

We walked in the gardens of the old quarter one day. It was especially nice out that day, it had rained the day before and everything was bright green. I thought the sun was shining merely for us. Many couples were out, but I decided none could be more of a pair than my lover and me. He loves parading me about.

A very handsome man walked by us, a rather homely girl swinging from his arms chattering away happily. They seemed not as in love as we were, she cluttered up his ears with talk and he looked rather bored. However, he was handsome.

Fameuil breathed a little sigh, which I heard immediately.

"Mon cher," I cried, clinging onto his side. "Do you ail?' I looked him worriedly in the eyes.

He blushed, and nervously began. "I am fine, Zéphine, bother me no more!"

"Yes, sir." I said, in the way I had. This always got him, every time.

"I said bother me not!" He bellowed, obviously unaffected. Fameuil turned to me with a look of fury, and I wondered if he was going to strike me.

"My old beau hit me too," I stated, defiantly. "I know how to stand up for myself!"

"I'm sorry, Zéphine. I have so much weighing my thoughts down." He looked worried, and I wanted to make him feel better some how.

"Yes, sir!" I repeated in the same way.

Fameuil laughed genuinely for a moment, but then his laughter faded. It continued for a moment, forced and flat, and then ceased. I looked around, confused.

The man was back.

Is it really so awful, my dears, to love a man as you would a woman? My Fameuil is impossible to dislike, he's a very good man.

The bible may say, "Lie not with a man as you would a woman," but does it not also say that if one man slaps your cheek, to turn one's face and offer the other? The meaning I seek is, if you feel men like my Fameuil are wronging you, do not shun them or lock them up like lepers or criminals. Turn your face to him, and allow him to "wrong" you once more.

Long ago, when I lived in that desolate orphanage, the likes of which are all too full nowadays, painted on the gray, dreary brick was this simple phrase: "Love they neighbor." In fear of the whip and the fist, us girls stuck close together, and we tried very hard to love each other, no matter which sin we broke: no matter who coveted Lisette's new hair ribbon or who bit the new girl.

Why can we not learn from a group of scared, whimpering _orphelines_ in a long ago convent? Love. So simple a word, so universal a concept. Love.

I love Fameuil. Perhaps not with the Blonde's innocence and passion, but I love him all the time. Can you truly understand the situation? Have you been in it?

Sometimes, I wonder if he fell in love with my flat chest and short hair, or if he fell in love with me. Though it's clear he has a taste for the men, might he love me as well?

I have given my cold heart to Fameuil. He has warmed it, softened it, and taught me to laugh. However, I find myself looking into his distant gray eyes, searching for the love that I pray I haven't dreamed.

Though he saved me from life as a bitter old hag, he _has_ wronged me as well. Fameuil's hit me, once or twice, thrown the dinner when he disliked it…given me to Listolier or Blanchville. Happy birthday, Merry Christmas…

Does he love me? Does he love me today, or does he love Félix? Will he love me tomorrow? When will you love me, Fameuil?

If they ever come to take him away, to exterminate this "Menace to Society," claiming he's mad or incapable of following the bible, I shall ask them if they have a mistress. When the answer is yes, I shall cheer.

"You are incapable of following the bible as well! Adultery is a sin. Get into the carriage, you aren't sane either!"

When they come, if they come, perhaps I shall stop them completely.

"Excuse me," they'd say, feigning kindness. "Is this the house of Guillaume Fameuil?"

"Lord bless me," I'd cry. "Of course not! It's just my husband and I, we're god-fearing Christians!"

If they come to get him, I know not what I'd do. I could never live a day without my Fameuil. I adore him, though sometimes I disgust myself. Some days, I think of what he's done to me and think he should go.

I think back now to the days of Lisette and her hair ribbons. That little joy was enough. Perhaps a few good days could cloud out the bad…Lisette was the bet of us. She remembered always that simple rule.

_Love thy neighbor._


	3. Dona Nobis Pacem

_Ah, yes. An extremely large chapter. I didn't mean for it to be so long, but I've been gone forever, or so it seems Anyway ,this story stretches itself as far from cannon as possible without being it's own world entirely, but seeing as it's like, about Sister Simplice's past, here's very little cannon to go on. I'm mildly proud of this story. Flames will be used to melt this one popular girl's hair so my bestest buddy can take her role in the musical. Well, toodle pip!_

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The children clamour themselves around me. They are the poor children, dressed in their tatters and rags, pull at my habit. "Tell us a story, Sister! Tell us a story!" I want only to hug them, for a time I might give into their request- what other little joys had they? Poor children, they are left with such a tired nun, who knows so little about them.

I began helping here not very long ago, in the new room added to the hospital. I cannot face the "old" hospital any longer. I cannot even look at the wrought iron fence that stretches around the perimeter- the poor girl Fantine is dead, the pitiable wretch. Such a sad girl, such an awful life… and the way she died, oh, mercy!

The children, sick as they are, are full of energy- maybe a story shall settle them down, it is almost dark out and those who can get out of bed must return there in a short while.

"Tell us a story! Tell us a story!" The chant continues.

I sigh. 

"What would you like to hear?" The children, though they were egging me on, seem surprised I have spoken, I speak so little.

"What kind of child was you?" wonders a sandy-haired boy, with a smile spreading in anticipation.

"It's obvious," snarls his taller but equally sandy-headed sister, known by the other children for being horribly bitter. "She was one o' them good girls, with they's pale noses in the stitchin', makin' no trouble for the nanny and all that _merde._" 

The other children don't even flinch at the word, this word I dare not repeat.

"Don't say that," I chide, softly, then laugh. "Would you really like to hear my story?" I suck my breath in, prepared for the longest bit of talking I had ever withstood.

"Oh, yes!" The children cry various words of agreement. I put my finger to my lips, and they fell into a semicircle around the base of the chair in which I sat.

"It is said around here that I have never told a lie- this is only partially true. I have never told a lie in all the time I have known our Lord. I have not known our Lord my entire life."

"So," says the sandy-haired girl "Were you a bad 'un?"

"Yes, I was, Camille. A very 'bad 'un'."

"So if you wuz bad, why'd you become a nun?" asks Camille, interested.

"Would you like to hear that story, my dears?" The children look unhappy, but I continue. I should tell someone, I suppose.

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When I was a girl, I was blessed with one very special friend- my sister. She wasn't a dainty thing- far from it. Dimanche, as she was christened, had not even a graceful name. Being born on a Sunday, my mother had seen fit to call my sister Dimanche in honor of the Lord 's Day. From that we derived her nickname, Lordy. 

Lordy had no need for men, she read about them enough in her books she got my father to buy for her- the bookseller on our street was a horrible man, she called him The Old, for her must have been over fifty. Old thought women should not be allowed to read, and would not sell to Lordy. He was a violent man, waving knives at me in the streets and I walked by, holding my mother's hand. I wonder now how he got away with it. Perhaps he was rich.

Lordy persisted through a decade of father bringing home the wrong books. She wanted "Romeo and Juliet" which was written by her favorite author, William Shakespeare. My father had brought home some romantic novel with vaguely the same plot that Lordy burned up in the fireplace. When she finally got her book, was it in French? No, Lordy would not have that. She wanted to read Shakespeare in his own language, and resolutely applied herself to English, driving father up the wall with her request of schoolbook after schoolbook until finally one day, she greeted us with the longest string of gibberish that had ever met my ears.

"Hello, my dear Blanche!" Lordy laughed, eager to show off her new English  skills. "You name, it mean in the English, 'white'. What would you like? The coffee?"

            I stared at her for a second. I clearly thought Lordy was insane. 

"Um…" I said, trying to call to mind the brief amount of German I had learned from talking to the shifty men who hung out around the taverns. "Guten tag." I said, stubbornly. "So, hmph!" 

            Yes, Lordy was a scholar, she out smarted every boy on our block. She took classes at home, with our father for a teacher, and there was no limit to her knowledge. That was why she lived at home, seventeen and alone.

            "What are the four humors?" cried the doctor's son, determined to stump her.

            "Black bile, yellow bile, blood, and phlegm." Lordy ticked them off on her bitten down fingernails. "What else would you like to know?" 

            "What happened to the Americas in recent years?" sneered a smug looking Old, passing Lordy in her garden.

            "There was an appalling revolution. The Americans valiantly stood up to those vile English, and they won, too. They signed the treaty two years ago here in Paris, which ended the war and allowed the colonies to form their own nation. They have had a confederacy for the past two years, and I have read that it's going poorly." 

I felt increasing less than Lordy that night, and during those hours of darkness as I lay I bed I decided to better myself.

            The year was 1785, and I was thirteen years old. Lordy, four years older than me, had so far been unsuccessful in her beaus, seeing as she'd never had one.

            I hadn't been successful either, by those long ago standards. However, I thought that men were the one area Lordy had never been, and I found myself drawn to them. Old, young, I wasn't fussy. Ah, but you gasp! You must realize, dears, that we all have pasts.

            I hadn't had much luck in bettering myself. I roamed around, trying my hardest, with the city boys, boys whose fathers were beneath my father, boys who were lucky not to become fathers themselves. Then, I suspect, because I felt superior to Lordy- she was everything my parents wanted in a daughter, but she had no man. I had several.  She was smart, she was amusing, and if she put her hair up and took off the spectacles she frequently borrowed from father, she was a beauty. I felt prettier; I wore fashionable dresses and spent hours putting my hair in elaborate styles. I felt then as if I was as smart as Lordy, though with different knowledge.

My parents called me loose, but according to Lordy. I was "wanton." By then I had come to hate my sister, and she knew not why- she passed books along to me, which I destroyed. Lordy might have found "Calculus, a Type of Mathematics Invented by Sir Isaac Newton of England" irresistible and a good read, but I thought it was stupid and she was simple to read it.

            I lied constantly to my mum and my father, if you can believe it. Where was Blanche going? 

            "I'm off to buy hair ribbons and stockings," I said before kissing Pépin in the bushes.

            Whom is Blanche going to see?

            "I think I'll call on Grandmamma," I muttered before giving myself to the baker.

            My lies were not enough to keep the near-by busybodies' prying eyes away from me, and as my luck would dictate, the baker's wife was the biggest busybody of all. Soon, I was stuck inside, given the most conservative of dresses to wear, holed up all day with Lordy, who my equally "wanton" friends and I despised and mocked. Lordy was seventeen, had hardly even talked to a man who wasn't Father or a schoolmaster, and dressed unfashionably. She didn't even wear a corset, and to us, this was a crime. You must remember that such a girl did not exist back then, and that had Lordy not been blessed with a liberal, lenient mother and a loving poet for a father, she would be just like the rest of us. We laughed that Lordy would never get married, Lordy would marry my father after my mother passed on- the jokes were vicious and relentless. Poor spinster Lordy.

The times change, my children. The wind blows.

On this particular day, the wind was indeed blowing, and Lordy was laughing herself into a state, looking at the cover of a book.

            "Father," Lordy panted, gasping for air. "This isn't 'A History of England to the Present Date,' this is 'Twenty English Foods for Preparing in Your Own Kitchen.'"

            "Well," said Father, "I haven't the time to return it."

            "When will you?" Lordy pressed. "Tomorrow? Today? You could go after supper! When will you return it?"

            "I don't KNOW, Lordy!" Father was at the end of his rope. Lordy wanted everything instantaneously; the history of England just couldn't wait. 

            Tears sprang to Lordy's eyes. "Very well," she sniffled. "If you feel you need to bellow, you needn't return at this instant."

            Father sighed, warned her not to do anything silly, and creaked up the stairs until he came to rest in his den.

            "For God's sake, Lordy. Take the book back yourself!" I cried, as soon as Father had left her alone. I had been inside for months it seemed now- it was driving me mad. 

            I knew Lordy would come back upset, and I relished that knowledge. Lordy would get herself a second yelling-at from Old; he would tell her women were senseless, he would wave her rusty old knife, and sensitive Lordy would cry up and down the street.

            Lordy considered the fact that she had been told not to do anything silly, thinking that perhaps Father was right. She voiced this, but I tried to convince her otherwise. I didn't want Father to be right- I wanted Lordy to get herself out of the house. It was awful and malicious, I know, but I blamed all my problems on Lordy. Lordy had made me go around with the Spaniards at the dock, Lordy was the reason I'd become so horrible. I wanted her out, if only for a little while. I could sneak away, if Lordy would just leave!

            "Go, _Dimanche_!" I laughed, watching her face contort as she heard the name she abhorred. "Old isn't there today!"

            "Of course he is!" Lordy snapped. "That man is always there, breathing down my neck, asking me questions. He says he'd kill me if only I dared step foot in his shop. Said he'd killed before."

            If I could just convince Lordy to leave, then I could sneak out. If only!

"Lordy! Stop being such an infant! Get the book, go to Old's, and return it!" I remembered a trick that might just work on stubborn Lordy. "I was only asking to see if you were brave enough. Apparently, you aren't!"  

            Lordy made a sound like a hurt kitten, turned on her heel, and departed with the book in her hand.

            I never saw Lordy again.

*          *          *

"Oh," gasps Camille. "You were a bad 'un. But why did you become a nun? You never said.

"Years later," I began, tired from all the speaking.  "I traveled to Paris with another boy and heard a choir echoing from an abbey. 'Dona Nobis Pacem', I heard. I knew enough Latin from my lessons with Father to translate loosely as "Give us peace," though I know this may be wrong. God gives us peace children, and after Lordy's…after Lordy, I was desperately looking for peace inside. I knew every day after that windy afternoon that I was responsible for what happened, my lie was what made Lordy go away.

"If God is to give us peace, I thought, perhaps I should start going to church. I went back to my little town in the east and went to our tiny house of worship whenever I thought of Lordy. At first, I was there nearly all the time, but slowly I less consumed by thoughts of Lordy, though never a day passed without her on my mind. I retain one habit from those old days- whenever I am sent a letter, it is the best feeling in the world. I have never lost hope that it might be Lordy, writing to tell me where she's been.

"I felt more peaceful inside, after I attended masses, I finally slept at night. I knew God had given me this harmony, and as I watched the two nuns in my little village aid the sick, I knew that I too needed to do God's work, not only as gratitude to Him, but for Lordy.

"Lordy often said she was going to become a woman doctor, and in aiding the sick, I hoped that I was saving people Lordy would have saved. That, _mes enfants_, is why I took my vows."

"Oh…" sighs Camille. I know a thought of joining the abbey has crossed through her mind as I tell my story. Bitter Camille, wanting to be a nun! It brought a smile to my heart. She opens her mouth after a second, and continues. "Since it was that lie that did ol' Lordy in, is that why you don't tell any more lies?"

I pat her on the head. "Precisely. Children, lying is the greatest sin there is. Never lie, children, never tell a lie."

I file the children off to bed, my throat aching, and kiss each one of them, aware of the diseases they carry. As I get to Camille, her tiny voice fills my ear.

"What's the Latin words, them ones you said to us?"

"Dona Nobis Pacem. Give us peace." I say softly, unable to reach a higher volume.

"I want to be a nun, Soeur. I want God to give me peace. Dona Nobis Pacem."


	4. Il Touché

_Hi guys! Thanks for all your nice reviews, you made me feel uber-special. I think you'll be seeing more frequent updates, I just kept putting off writing that Sister Simplice story. This story is about little Azelma, and all grammatical mistakes are intended. I know my grammar, but Azelma don't. Or, doesn't.  Enjoy!_

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There's a man who comes to our tavern sometimes. He gets on well with Papa 'cause he's a good tipper. Maman likes him because he always says what lovely girls we is, says her cooking's good, an' makes fun of Gavvy, who can walk now. He says Gavvy's a stupid boy, and Maman always agrees- "Soon as 'e can talk, 'e's out the 'ouse, I assure you."

Seems like I'm this man's favorite. "Zelly" he calls me. Sometimes it's "Zellette." He has got so many other pet names for me, tryin' to make me "feel comfortable" with him.

I am sore afraid of this man.

His hands is always on me, patting my head an' touchin' my hair. Ever since I saw Maman knock the Lark clear out, I've been afraid to be touched. I squirm out of hugs. I look at 'Ponine all upset an' scared when she waves her fist at me.

I don't know if he's gonna strike me, when he reaches him hand out to touch me, usually he just wants to stroke me cheek. That's the worst of all- one of Maman's favorites with the Lark is to stroke her face all lovin'-like; then suddenly twist the Lark's cheek between her thumb and her finger. The Lark always has two bruises on her left cheek from this dirty ol' trick, and she always looks sad.

I can tell from her face that no touch is good.

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The door clicks. I see familiar shoes an' knees, but I'm too short an' I can't see nothin' else expect a little bit of a familiar face. I step back a little and look up again. This time, I can see him.

"Salut, Zelmimi!" the man says, bendin' down to look me in the eyes. I can see his arm reaching out to touch my face, like Maman does to the Lark.

I whimper an' step back from him. "B-Bonsoir, M'sieur." I say. I'm dead scared. I look at Papa, unsure of what to do.

Papa points to his mouth. This means, "talk to him." Papa an' me an' 'Ponine made up some signs a long time ago, we use 'em to charm patrons outta their money. I like this game enough, so long as Papa don't cross his arms. That means, "hug him." 

Talk to him, talk to him…what will I say? Papa points to his shoes.

"I got me some new shoes yesterday." I tell him. "They weren't even nobody's first!"

Papa points to his teeth. I give the man a big smile.

"Really, Azelma?" The man returns my smile.

I nod. "Maman's gonna dye 'em blue, even! To match my Sunday dress!"

Papa coughs. This means, "look at me and I'll tell you what to do." Papa runs his finger through a hole in his coat.

"I need a new dress sore awful, but we haven't the-"I glance at Papa quickly. "Five francs for all the new stuff Maman needs to make it." I put on a sad face.

"I insist on buying you that dress." The man pulls out the five franc piece. Maman takes it and puts in into her apron. She is laughing.

I look at Papa, who draws a P in the air.

"My old Sunday dress used to be 'Poinine's. Now she don't even have one. "

The man insists on buying 'Ponine a dress as well. Papa smiles at me as he helps the Man to a table. A smile means, "Good job."

I am put to waiting on the man, and I bring him glass after glass of wine. Soon, Maman says he can't have no more; he drank a whole bottle. I go out to tell him this, but instead he asks me to sit on his lap. 

His eyes is peerin' into mine, as he leans off the chair. I can tell he's real drunk. I look at his face. I can see something dead sick an' twisted. My stomach begins to hurt. Something inside my tummy tells me not to sit down. If I sit on his lap, he'll be touching me. He will bite me or hit me, I think.

"I shan't!" I scream. "I don't trust you none!"

"Zelly!" He calls after me. But by that time, I've run off.

Maman catches me by my apron strings as I try to make me way outta the tavern. I jump as I feel her touch me.

Maman scolds me under her breath fer losing them customers. I cry silently for a moment 'til Maman sends me off ta bed, wit a slap on ma back.

I learned my lesson that night. You can't trust nobody, and you can't trust a touch.


	5. Promises

_Thanks for all the lovely reviews, everyone! You make my head swell to a size that is not in proportion to my body. Now, This story is Madame Albertine's, who is the most obscure character thus far. She makes no appearance in the musical or in any movies I am familiar with, so if you haven't read the novel, this story will be a bit over your head. Get out your copies, or go online, to the book of Cosette, and then I think it's chapter five, the Petit-Picpus. Scan the chapter, look for Madame Albertine. 110% off her rocker._

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I do not speak. I save my words for you, Auguste. I do not speak. I have not spoken since I saw you during the sermon. I do not speak. I merely hide. I hide within myself.

I hear them talk about me. They speak. They speak of "pecuniary arrangements." But. Auguste, worry not- they do not know how these monetary arrangements come into the story. They only know of the wedding. They do not know. They do not know of what you did.

I saw the girls. The girls you had, those "maids" of yours. Dripping. Dripping with blood. Always bleeding. They would quit bleeding, eventually. Then you'd jab them. They would scream. Cry. You would encourage them.  You loved it. You loved their screams.

The women were taken in by the curls. Your curls. Your agreeable air. You got to know each one.  Made them feel as if they were special. Then, you'd slit. Slit their wrists and throw them into the cellar. They always ended up there.

You tricked them. They were only peasant girls. They were afraid. Afraid to anger you, afraid to contradict you. You were above them. If you killed them, killed their families, nobody would notice. Nobody would care. They were but peasants. You were noble. You tricked them. Others knew. Other nobles. They turned a blind eye.

Not me. You didn't trick me. Not me. I was already a noble. You couldn't promise me riches. Couldn't promise me a title. I had them. Had those things. You promised me love. You promised me. Empty promises. Closest thing to love I got was a kiss on cut lips. You cut my lips. You promised.

My parents. My Papa, demon of demons. We were rich. Didn't need it. Didn't need your money. Papa wanted it. He saw you around me, touching me, kissing me. Kissing is immoral. He dropped hints. Told you you were immoral. Made you feel like you'd never get me. Sly man. He knew you needed me. Needed my body. You bought my hand in marriage for 1,000 francs. You bought it. You bought my hand. You bought it.

You bought me. He sold me. One thousand francs. That was the "pecuniary arrangement."

I loved you. I thought you loved me. You acted like any other man. That's what you said. I believed. Believed you.

You just wanted another girl to cut. A girl who could never leave. The others ran away eventually. You let them. You let them leave. By then, they couldn't bleed any longer. You didn't care. You wanted blood.

I couldn't. I couldn't leave. You owned me.

One day, Maman came. I don't blame Maman. She didn't sell me. She loved me.

You charmed her. Charmed Maman. She decided to stay. Said there was no sense in going home so late. She'd go with us to Sunday mass.

No girl should watch their mother bleed to death.

Screams. Laughter. Screams. Laughter. The smell. The blood. The mirth. White floor turned red. Screams. Laughter. Screams.

Papa. Papa found out. Sent me to the convent. They speak. They say I'm crazy. Not crazy. Not crazy. Do you think I'm crazy?

I was surprised. Surprised to see you preaching. They say you are a high-ranking priest. Did you? Did you buy that position? Help your conscience. You have no chance. No chance at heaven.

They say you were an officer, once. I did not know. I knew nothing. The peasant girls knew more.

Screams. Laughter. You promised me, Auguste.

I do not speak.

*          *          *

_I know the repetition must get on your nerves, readers, but I didn't want to portray the psychotic Madame Albertine any other way. So, sorry for one bothersome chapter, next up is Nicolette, I'll be able to return to someone with grammar and sanity at long last._


	6. Fathers

_It seems that the Nicolette I promised I'd write about was a collection of several different Nicolettes lodged together in my mind. Therefore, I give you instead Marius, age 12. Don't worry- his grammar is impeccable. However…(and this I warn you) I am not responsible for any grammatical mistakes of any other characters in this story. Well, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thanks for all your wonderful reviews! Last warning: My portrayal of little Marius isn't very…good. Sorry! Also: I'm not sure if Éponine would be in __Paris__ at this point of the story, but I thought it could be decently plausible._

__

_From here on, thoughts are in italics._

* * *

"Dear Papa,

I went again with Grandfather to the salon yesterday. At first, that place was amazing. Such nobility were gathered there- Grandfather respects nobility very much. They seemed to me to be ghosts, witches, whatever my little mind could think of. Now, I detest going there beyond anything-"

I felt Aunt's hot breath on my neck. Nervously, I flipped the page over. If she found out I was writing Papa…

"Let's have that rubbish here, Marius." She thrust her wizened, wrinkly old hand out. I was not about to let her have the letter- I wanted it to get to my papa. Instead, I gave her a paper near it.

This, unfortunately, was a rather unflattering picture I had drawn of her, complete with sticking out teeth and crooked feet.

Aunt slapped me across the cheek. "You insolent, stupid boy!" She bellowed. "You really are your father's son!"

I looked down, wishing I could take that remark as a compliment.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

I have never had any desire to meet my father: none at all. I have grown up hearing how detestable, how horrible a man he is. What makes me change my mind, then? Have I merely grown caring overnight? Not quite.

You see, last year on an unusually warm autumn day, Aunt awakened me by pushing me off the bed. As I scrambled to get up and to dress myself, she informed me that she had woken me up so I could run after the delivery boy to whom she had given an extra sou.

I stomped groggily down the stairs. "Waking me up to run after a sou…" I muttered angrily. I had been having the loveliest dream about the girl next-door…

It took me five minutes of running to find the boy Aunt had hastily described.

Stopping in front of a butcher's, I cupped my hands around my mouth. "Boy!" I called. "Come here!"

Smiling, he made his way towards me.

Immediately I reeled backwards. The boy's brown hair was moving- no! Thousands of louses were crawling about on top of his head. And the rags! They were the worst I had ever seen. Indeed, the tatters were in tatters.

"Good morning, ain't it?" The boy grinned, gaving me a quick glance. "Er…er…" he stumbled, blushing profusely. "My liege and master!" He bowed several times, and seemed to have all the intentions to kiss my show.

I was confused. _Liege__ and master? Oh!_

"I'm no royalty!" I laughed, stopping him from planting his lips on my foot. "Marius will do. What are you called?"

The boy smiled sheepishly. "I ain't got a real name. Folks call me Montparnasse 'cause that's where I live."

"Why haven't you a name?" I questioned. Surely everyone had a name!

"Well," he began. "When your father's a duke and your mum just a slip of a girl, no one much keeps you around fer long, and for certain not long enough ta name ya." He didn't seem sad telling this story, only wistful.

"So you don't know your father either?" I asked. _This boy might be very much like me_, I thought. I wondered if he thought his distant father wicked as well.

"Never did. I heard tell he's a good fer nothin' though. They say there's killer in his blood. Knives is his specialty."

"Killer!" I gasped. _Surely a noble man wouldn't kill! _To my horror and bemusement, Montparnasse laughed. 

"You go all lilly-faced when I says it! Killer! Killer!"

I felt the seep from my face. "Just…continue, Montparnasse." I sighed.

"Oh yes," He began again. "Papa's a right killer, an' they say he dresses real fine. I suppose he keeps up with all the fashion plates. I suppose he can afford to!

"Does he even know he has a son?' I wondered aloud, thinking of my own father who seemed to ignore me. He never even replied to my letters.

Montparnasse's face became immediately somber.

"I goes to see him sometimes. They won't even let me in the servant's door. But someday- someday when I'm big- I'll be just like 'im. I'll have them fancy togs and…well…would you like to meet Éponine?"

"Éponine?" I asked "Who's that?"

Slowly, Montparnasse pulled a dull blade from his delivery basket. The rusty silver ed metal almost shone, but for a dark red stain. The letters "É. T." were carved shakily into the splintering wooden handle.

"I named it after me love," He smiled, fingering the red stain. "This is her blood."

I stared in horror as a proud grin spread across his grimy face. He had hurt someone and he was happy! Montparnasse smiled at girl's blood!

"I knived her good," Montparnasse laughed. "We was playing foot racing, and she was faster. She knows to lose, now."

Any notions of getting the sous back from Montparnasse completely fled my mind; any feelings of camaraderie fled my heart. I took one last "lilly-faced" look at this awful boy and ran until I was in our garden, sobbing under a tree.

It was around dusk that I realized Montparnasse could find his way onto our street again. Montparnasse and his horrible knife "Éponine." The clip-clop of a horse's hooves twisted themselves into his footsteps. Screaming with tears, I ran upstairs to my room and bolted the door.

After a while, my thoughts led me away from the knife and the boy and to fathers. Montparnasse's father was the wicked man- driving a boy to kill others, to enjoy harming others, even girls! It was his fault.

But, in my mind, a horrible thought lingered. Perhaps the lack of a father caused him to go bad. Perhaps I would turn out that way: a brigand!

I am now determined to know my father. Not one of my letters has yet been mailed, but perhaps there is hope for me yet.

* * *

A/N: This story is an example of what happens when you chew Orbit Spearmint gum (my favorite!!) every waking minute for about six months. It gets into your brain. Along with Diet Coke with Lime.

Anyone notice a recurring theme??? No, I am not obsessed with blood and knives...why do they keep showing up??? Thanks for reading, and please give me a review!!!


	7. The Ward

Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? Well, anyway, here's the latest (and poorest) addition to my little ficlet pile. The character? Gibelotte. I forget what other editions call her, but she's the sleepy waitress from the Cafe Musain. The translation of her name as "stewed rabbit" might be subject to debate, as I've seen it translated differently in other editions, but I'm just going with my book for now.

This chapter includes poor grammar, of course. I don't add poor grammar to these as a rule but it always manages to rear it's ugly head!

Thanks for reading and enjoy!!

* * *

So many dishes to be washed.

There weren't as many plates as before, and it made things a little easier, as there was less scrubbing involved. Still, those students drank so much wine.

So very many wine glasses...

It would be at least midnight when she finished. Sometimes sickly, pre-dawn light trickled into the kitchen before Gibelote wiped the last tea cup dry.

Gibelotte. Had she no other name? She racked her brain trying to think of the last time someone had called her anything but "Stewed Rabbit."

"Geneva..." She sounded the name slowly. Geneva seemed a stranger. Gibelotte and Geneva were no longer one.

Gibelotte often wished for someone to spend the long nights with. How lonely darkness was! Matelote had long since gone home, and Madame was snoring to wake the dead. The place was not quiet, but it was lonely. Snores and sleep-growls were nobody's friends.

Indeed, that was why she came to Paris. To escape her biting loneliness.

The life of a ward is never easy; you can never misbehave the way normal children can. There was no splashing through mud for Geneva, though she wanted to splash bitterly. Everyday, she was reminded by her guardian, the village Goatherd, that he was doing her a costly favor. So, every day, Geneva cooked and scrubbed and never got any sleep.

The Goatherd, whose name Gibelotte had long since forgotten, had compassion for his goats and his goats alone. Often Geneva was banished to sleep in the goat pen and would wake to the sound of The Goatherd whispering kind words to the animals.

"Papa," Geneva had asked one day, in her rough peasants' speech, "Why d'you love them goats so? I'm a people, I am, an' you treat me worse than you do them!"

"You," he growled, "You ain't nothin' more than a stupid bitch who's gonna grow into an even stupider whore. If I treat you with compassion, you ain't never gonna leave my house."

Often Geneva wondered why he didn't just throw her out if he felt such contempt for her. She supposed someone had to wash his disgusting clothes and clean his disgusting house. Often she was hit for "not working hard enough," but nothing short of a miracle can cleanse a shirt of the smell of wet goat.

Her life was consumed by work. When she was not slaving away for the Goatherd, she slaved away for others. Geneva was the oldest girl in the village without children, so she sometimes was hired to watch the babies of farm laborers while they toiled. She received little more than nothing for her work, as laborers are not known for their wealth. Still, after a decade, she had enough to ride in the back of a wagon headed to Paris.

Her first thought upon entering was how many people were bustling about Paris. How many friends she could make!

Her second thought was that everything was so very expensive. Her first acquaintance was a man who was extremely well dressed in the eyes of a mountain peasant. He promised her quick money and ever quicker friends.

He was not her friend.

Within days, Geneva was nothing but a drunk street wench. She had made no friends, but being poor provided her with enemies everywhere she went.

One night, after waking up from a drunken stupor, Geneva stumbled into the Cafe Musain to eat. She usually ate at small cafes; the fewer the waitresses, the easier it was to run off without paying.

Geneva ordered nearly everthing the cafe offered, and true to custom, she stuffed the last piece of bread into her mouth and attempted to run out the worm-eaten door.

Minutes later, Geneva was washing tables.

It was during that first day she had gotten her name, but the weary days had eaten away at her memory and she could no longer recall how.

A shrill voice pierced through Gibelotte's dream just then, and in that split second, Geneva died.

"Wake up, you lazy idiot!" The voice belonged to Madame and it lacked the usual odd qualities that people associated with it. "I took you in out of the cold and you repay me by ignoring your work?!"

Gibelotte opened her eyes and was startled to find herself bathed in the golden sunlight of morning and the wine glass she had been washing in shatters on the floor.

"Perhaps you would like to return to your life as a whore!"

Gibelotte almost wished to go back to that life, but she she said nothing. It is better to be a warm ward than free and freezing, wasn't it?

Gibelottle sighed. Wasn't it?

The life of a ward is never easy.


	8. Sultan

_I had a sudden urge to update this, and so, without further ado, here is Mother Plutarque's, M. Mabeuf's and Sultan the cat's situation in two drabbles. I've been working mostly in drabbles lately in an attempt to simplify my prose._

_I hope you enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Her cat was mewing.

She stirs in her bed, muttering to the animal in her sleep.

"My darling heart," she murmurs, as though far away.

It pains her that her cat is nothing but bones. Lately, however, she can scarcely open her eyes. The cover of darkness, even in daytime, is almost a blessing. She pretends her dearest has eaten.

She cannot see he hasn't.

She can't pretend she doesn't hear the sound of his howls, however, and they drive her nearly mad.

She picks up her cat, her eyes tearing up as she feels his jagged ribs.

"My darling heart…" she sighs.

* * *

He is not going to tell her.

No, it is for the best that she does not know.

He has sold his last book. It was his Diogenes Laertius, and his final joy.

The potion Mother Plutarque needs is still too expensive, even with the money brought in from his final book.

This saddens him.

She is sleeping when he enters the room. He dumps the pieces noisily on her table, in secret hopes that she will awaken.

She doesn't.

As he silently exits her chamber, his eyes look upon the cat.

They will eat well.

She will not know.


End file.
